


Empire of Dirt

by spontaneoussquirrel17



Series: Lover Come Over [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Loss, Murder, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-02 10:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spontaneoussquirrel17/pseuds/spontaneoussquirrel17
Summary: Sitwell believes the Asset has been compromised.The Asset receives his final mission.The events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier as told by Sitwell and the Asset (and fleshed out/imagined by me.)  This fic is the (current) direct sequel to The Miseducation of Steve Rogers.  The work title and chapter titles are from 'Ain't No Rest for the Wicked' by Cage the Elephant and 'Hurt' as performed by Johnny Cash.





	1. Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Sitwell thinks Steve Rogers knows who the Asset is. He panics.

The early morning sun peeked through the curtains in Steve Rogers’ apartment in Washington, D.C.  Steve was out for his daily run. Typically, this meant that his apartment was empty. Today, however, it meant that a small group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents sympathetic to Hydra were taking advantage of Steve’s absence to do their monthly inspection.

“Hey boss, come look at this,” a small agent called Ross said.  They were looking at a medium-sized notebook on Steve’s desk.

“What is it, Agent Ross?” Jasper Sitwell asked, crossing the room to join Ross at the small desk where they were standing.

“Do we know if the Asset has been compromised?” Ross queried, pointing at a sketch in Steve Rogers’ drawing notebook.  The sketch was of a man wearing a mix of black tactical gear and civilian clothes. The only body part not covered up was his face.  There was nothing else to indicate when the drawing had been done or who the man was. “Only, I didn’t think he ever took off the mask on mission.”

“He doesn’t,” Sitwell said quietly.  “Which means that I have to ask how you, Agent Ross, happen to know what the Asset’s face looks like.”  

Agent Ross swallowed hard.  They didn’t have an answer for Sitwell.  Ross’ security clearance was just high enough to know the Asset existed, but not high enough to ever enter the room when the Asset was unmasked.  They had just guessed the man in the drawing’s identity based on the gear he was wearing. Apparently they had guessed a little too well.

Sitwell grabbed the notebook and snapped it shut.  “Agent Anderson, take care of this please,” he said to a woman who had just finished situating a bug on the doorframe.  Sitwell pocketed the notebook and walked away as Anderson skillfully applied a garrote to Ross’ throat. The team had exactly five more minutes to finish searching and re-bugging the apartment.  Now they were going to have to remove a body as well. Sitwell himself would have to deal with the sketches. He sighed, then pulled out his switchblade and began to carefully extract the pages in the notebook containing the man in black.

 

“Pierce, sir, we have a situation,” Sitwell said over the phone.  He was alone in his car, unless you counted the driver. Sitwell never counted the driver.

“Better make it quick, Sitwell, I have a meeting with the president in 15 minutes.”  Alexander Pierce sounded impatient.

“The Asset may have been compromised, sir.,” Sitwell explained.  “We found sketches in Captain Rogers’ place.”

There was a moment of silence from Pierce.  “You’re sure it’s him? Not just a modern reimagining of little Steve’s dear old best friend?”

Sitwell tensed.  He always hated to deliver bad news to his boss.  It made him very uncomfortable. “Not unless someone else is walking around wearing the exact same combat boots as the Asset, sir.”  Sitwell and Pierce both knew this was an impossibility. The Asset’s combat boots were a custom design.

Pierce swore quietly for a full minute.  “Has anyone else seen the sketches?”

“No one alive,” Sitwell assured him.

“Good,” Pierce said.  “Have my secretary arrange a meeting for tonight.  Just the Seven. We’ll need to assess the situation.”

“Of course, sir.  I’ll call Ms. Wilkins right away.  Heil Hydra.”

“Heil Hydra,” Pierce replied, then hung up.

Sitwell took a deep breath to steady himself before he called Ms. Wilkins.  He would have to tell his driver to make a coffee stop as well. It was going to be a long night.

 

The meeting of the Seven took place in the basement of the safe house where the Asset was kept.  It had been chosen because of the meeting’s subject matter. If fast action were needed, it would be possible to kill or thaw and use the Asset at a moment’s notice.  Sitwell was praying that neither action would be necessary. He hated interacting with the Asset. It was like working with an eerily intelligent zombie. Sitwell was terrified of zombie movies.

The Seven were the de facto leadership council of Hydra.  No major decisions were supposed to be made without a meeting of the Seven.  There was one member for each tentacle, with Pierce as the head. Sitwell didn’t really understand why the logo was a six-armed octopus instead of, say, an actual hydra,  but he wasn’t paid to ask questions. Anyway, the decision had been made long before he was born by someone way above his stipend grade.

The only members physically present were Jasper Sitwell, Brock Rumlow, and Alexander Pierce.  One of the scientists on the team was calling in from somewhere in the midwest, where she was working on some Kree technology that had been found.  The other scientist was at a conference in Bern and was calling in from there. The Russian General and the European Countess had been unable to get flights in time and were also present via hologram.

After the requisite greetings were made Pierce interlaced his fingers and placed his joined fists on the table.  He leaned over his arms to get physically closer to Sitwell. It was an intimidation tactic that never failed to make Sitwell sweat.  “Agent Sitwell, why don’t you tell us in your own words what you discovered today in Captain America’s apartment.”

Sitwell, of course, obliged.  He was Pierce’s right-hand yes-man.  He had gotten where he was by saying yes.  By the time he had learned what would happen if he changed his mind to no it was too late.

There was a moment of silence after Sitwell finished describing what he had found.  “Are you sure the Captain saw ‘is face? What if it was just a fantasy? Perhaps ‘e saw the Asset, but did not recognize ‘im.  Perhaps ‘e liked the boots and thought ‘is old friend would have liked them too.” The Countess spoke perfect English with just a trace of an accent somewhere between French, Italian, and Spanish.  Her brows were furrowed in displeasure.

“Can we take zat reesk zough?” the Russian General asked.

“It’s time to take him out,” Rumlow stated firmly.  “He’s had a good run. Now it’s time to show the world that Hydra doesn’t need science experiments to be strong.”

The scientist currently in Bern objected.  “The Asset is the product of decades of experimentation and billions of dollars worth of resources.  To destroy him would be to destroy the hard work of countless researchers. And need I remind you, Rumlow, that you’ve never objected to being my guinea pig when I’ve needed to test my weaker serums?”  Rumlow turned bright red and began to stand up in anger. Pierce threw an arm in front of him, signaling him to hold back. Rumlow slowly sat back down, glowering at the screen showing the scientist in Bern.

“You know as well as I do that the Asset’s programming has been failing more and more frequently,” the scientist in the midwest said to her compatriot.  “It’s only a matter of time until he becomes more than we can control.”

Pierce looked displeased at this.  “I thought we had the best scientists in the world working on this,” he grumbled.

“We do,” she assured him.  “The problem is that his body seems to be adapting to handle what we throw at him.  The data shows that the drugs aren’t maintaining efficacy as long.” Pierce frowned and shuffled the papers in front of him.

“Would zee Captain have told heez superiors about heez discovery?” the General asked.  Pierce looked to Sitwell.

“It’s possible,” Sitwell said, thinking quickly.  “He might trust Director Fury enough to say something.”

“Right,” Rumlow said.  “So we take out Fury, Cap, and the Asset.  I’ll get my strike team on it.”

Pierce held up his hand to silence Rumlow.  “No,” he said slowly, “We’ll get the Asset on it.”  Six pairs of eyes stared at Pierce in surprise.

“Are we sure that is wise?” the Countess said faintly.

“The Asset and Captain America are fairly evenly matched,” the scientist in the midwest mused.  “They may be the only ones capable of killing each other in combat. And there’s no question the Asset could assassinate Fury.”

Pierce nodded.  “Then it’s settled.  Sitwell, you’re on operations.  Rumlow, you’re on backup if things go south.  Meeting adjourned. Heil Hydra!”

“Heil Hydra!” came the chorus of six.  The holograms disappeared one by one.

“Sitwell, what’s the timeline?” Pierce asked.

Sitwell thought for a moment.  “We already have Captain Rogers under surveillance.  That part will be easy. We’ll need a couple weeks to get movement data Fury, though, sir.”

“Make it a week.  We won’t need the Asset to operate in secrecy this time.  In fact, it may be best if he doesn’t,” Pierce mused. “With the launch for Project Insight approaching, it’s high time for Hydra to come out into the open.  Provided we can spin this right, the deaths of Director Fury and Captain Rogers may be exactly what we need to gain public support. Hydra took care of the threats no one else saw coming.  Now, with Project Insight, we’ll be able to protect the world with more efficiency and less mess.” 

Pierce stood up and gathered his papers, neatly placing them inside his briefcase.  “One week, gentlemen. I’ll be in contact,” he said, then left. Rumlow followed, whistling tunelessly and flipping a hunting knife.  Sitwell sighed and followed. He needed more coffee if he was going to deal with this.

 

It actually took a week and a half to get ready, in part because of the way the  Lemurian Star incident played out. The positive outcome of this was that it gave Fury and Pierce a reason to have a meeting.  It would be easy to follow Fury from the meeting location. Rumlow’s strike team would corner Fury and then the Asset would take him out.  Easy.

Unfortunately, the Asset was not a fan of the plan.  “I work alone,” he rasped.

“Not this time,” Rumlow said, his eyes focused on the Bowie knife he was sharpening.  They were gathered in the basement room used to store and work on the Asset. It was dimly lit.  A cryo tank stood in one corner. A chair that looked as though it belonged in a medieval torture exhibit or a dental office was bolted to the middle of the floor.

The Asset frowned.  “Then I give orders.”

“No, I do,” Rumlow answered.  Sitwell could see and hear the anger rising in him.

“Why,” the Asset said.  It was a statement. Unlike Rumlow, there was no trace of emotion in his words.

“Safety,” Sitwell answered before Rumlow could speak.

“I’ll be exposed.”  The Asset’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion.  Sitwell understood why- the Asset was rarely ordered to do public assassinations.  Mission prep usually included a reminder of what would happen should the Asset be spotted.  One of the few activities both Sitwell and Rumlow enjoyed was watching these reminders take place.

“Unavoidable,” Sitwell said.

The Asset nodded.  This was apparently enough of an explanation. “When,” he said.  The Asset was smart enough to never actually ask a question. It rarely went well for him when he did.  

“Today, at 1500 hours,” Sitwell told him.  

“Where,” said the Asset.  Sitwell gave him an address.  The Asset nodded in confirmation.  “Gear.”

Rumlow leered.  “Come with me,” he said, and the Asset followed obediently.  Sitwell gave a quiet sigh of relief as they left the room. The Asset’s dark blue eyes were so creepy.  They saw everything and betrayed little. They held hints and flashes of things Sitwell couldn’t understand. It made talking to him extremely unnerving.  He wasn’t going to be upset to finally get rid of him.

 

Fury wasn’t supposed to be leading them on a car chase during rush hour.  He wasn’t supposed to have a welding tool, or digging tool, or whatever the hell it was that let him cut through.  He had apparently made extra security modifications to his car that weren’t on file. How very Fury-like of him.

“Shit,” whispered Sitwell as he watched the chaos unfold from his mobile command center.  “ _ Shit _ .”  Fury was escaping.  “Crossbones, pull out,” he said into his comm.  “Winter Soldier, follow the target. Finish the job.”  He pulled out his burner phone and texted Pierce. ‘ _ Pirate escaping.  Crossbones flag being lowered.  Winter will follow _ .’ “Shit,” Sitwell said again as he watched the live video feed.  Another fake cop car exploded and civilians screamed. Pierce had wanted to come out into the open.  In that respect only, this mission was definitely a success.

 

“It is done,” the voice rasped over the comm.

Sitwell nodded to himself.  “Good,” he replied. “Go to safe house Alpha Rho Theta.  Await further instructions.”

“Rogers, out,” the Asset confirmed.

A few hours later Sitwell was standing in a hospital with Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, Agent Hill, and Rumlow.  As they watched Director Fury go into cardiac arrest Sitwell froze. The Asset hadn’t said the customary ‘Roger.’ He had said ‘Rogers.’  Rogers with an s. Like the man standing against the glass right in front of him, watching as the surgeons and nurses abandoned their implements and began to disrobe.  Sitwell walked purposefully to the next empty room, then took out his phone to make a call.

“Agent Anderson, I need you to check the footage.  Confirm that Fury was alone in Captain Rogers’ apartment at the moment he was killed.”  Sitwell was trying his utmost to keep the rising panic out of his voice. He began pacing back and forth inside the small, empty room, which had turned out to be a storage closet.

Anderson took a moment to respond while he checked the surveillance feed from Steve Rogers’ apartment.  “Negative, sir.”

“What do you mean, negative?” Sitwell hissed.

“Captain Rogers was present at the time Directory Fury was shot,” Anderson informed him.  “It appears as though he unsuccessfully tried to give chase. Agent 13 came on the scene almost immediately after Fury fell.”

Sitwell took a deep breath.  “Thank you, Agent Anderson. Heil Hydra.”  He hung up the phone before Anderson even had time to respond.  “Shit shit SHIT,” Sitwell screamed. The Asset was already receiving instructions for the next phase of the mission.  It was too late to bring him in and wipe him. He would have Rumlow run backup. They were just going to have to see how things played out.


	2. Full of Broken Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset is given a mission. He also begins to remember things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun coincidence... this is one of the chapter titles from Hurt as done by Johnny Cash. Or, as of today on Twitter, Chris Hemsworth aka Thor.

This was why the Asset hated working with others.  Left to his own devices, he would have shot Black Man with the Eyepatch Target while he was getting in or out of his car.  It would have been easy. One bullet. But no, Weapons Handler had to interfere. Had to take charge. Had to stage a car chase.  Give Target time to strategize. If Weapons Handler had brought some of his ex-KGB under-handlers with him, the situation might have been salvageable.  They, at least, accepted orders from him. Weapons Handler’s American under-handlers never did.

The Asset became distracted.  Something unfamiliar pricked at his chest.  It wasn’t the usual emptiness. It was…

‘ _Anger_ ,’ he thought.  The Asset wasn’t sure where this knowledge came from.  He closed his eyes slowly, letting the darkness help his mind refocus on the task at hand.  Once he could feel the anger but not be ruled by it he opened his eyes and started observing through the scope, waiting.  Target had entered an apartment on the top floor. The man was smart. He was staying out of sight of the windows. He had turned on music.  It was old music. Something about it was familiar.

A man cautiously entered the apartment through the window.  He was tall, blonde, and muscular. The Asset deduced that he was an agent specialized in fighting.  Target must be the blonde man’s handler. If it was the other way around the blonde man would be his target.  Then the Asset’s vision went white.

A scene flashed before his eyes.  He was in an art gallery in Edinburgh.  He was looking at pencil drawings. One was a boy.  The boy looked familiar. A blonde, muscular man had sat down next to him.  The man had felt familiar. The man had talked to him. The man had known the boy.  The boy had been called Bucky. The man was obviously the artist. The artist had said his name was Steve.  But the Asset had to hide. Those words had meant something. Something too much. Something that would mean recalibration.  The Asset had followed the artist named Steve anyway. He learned that the artist named Steve had a last name of Rogers.

The vision passed.  The Asset shut his eyes again to refocus.  When he opened them Black Man with the Eyepatch Target and Agent Artist Steve Rogers were talking.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers was holding a large disk like a shield. He couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the music.  They were arranged in a way that made lip reading impossible. Target must have relaxed a bit, though. He must have thought the window was safe because Agent Artist Steve Rogers had not been shot.  Target was wrong, though. Agent Artist Steve Rogers had not been shot because he was not the target. There had been no order to kill witnesses on this mission. Target stood up.

The Asset pulled the trigger of his sniper rifle three times.  One was for the kill shot to the heart. The other two were for the anger feeling.  Interesting. He had not done that before.

The extra shots had taken too long.  Another agent was already on the scene.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers looked up. Agent Artist Steve Rogers saw the Asset despite the dark.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers must have excellent night vision, like him. Agent Artist Steve Rogers was still carrying his large metal disk.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers was in pursuit. He had not expected Agent Artist Steve Rogers to match his speed, strength, and agility. Agent Artist Steve Rogers threw the disk at him.  He caught it with his metal arm without looking. Then, as if by reflex, he threw it back. Agent Artist Steve Rogers was surprised. This action had distracted him. Surprise was a sign of a bad agent.  The Asset jumped off the roof and escaped. Agent Artist Steve Rogers did not follow.

 

“It is done,” the Asset said over his comm once he was several blocks away from the scene.

Operations Handler responded.  “Good. Go to safehouse Alpha Rho Tau.  Await further instructions.”

Alpha Rho Tau.  ART. Like Agent Artist Steve Rogers.  Rogers. End communication. Follow instructions.  “Rogers, out,” the Asset replied. He covered his metal arm in a black sleeve and melted into the street scene, headed towards safehouse Alpha Rho Tau.  He hated Greek letters. Cyrillic were so much better. Perhaps one day he would mention it to Lead Handler. If he remembered. If Lead Handler let him remember.

 

They were in a room filled with weapons.  There was a table for planning in the middle of the room.  The Asset and one of Lead Handler’s under-handlers were on opposite sides of the table.  The under-handler pushed a photograph across the table at him. The Asset looked down. “This is your new target,” the under-handler said.  He blinked twice. The photo was of the blonde man. Agent Artist Steve Rogers. “Do whatever it takes to kill him. Leave a mess. Anyone who tries to help him can be killed as well.  Make it as public as possible. Report directly to Pierce.”

“Rogers,” he said.  He meant it as both the name of the new target and as a confirmation that he understood orders.

“Get yourself suited up,” the under-handler ordered.

The Asset nodded.  He began to walk methodically around the room, gathering supplies.  He’d need to replace the bomb he’d used. He needed three bullets for his sniper rifle.  He fingered a garrote. It wasn’t his style. He preferred sniper rifles and knives. But Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target would not be easy to kill.  He would have to diversify his arsenal. It would be a good challenge. He had not had a good challenge since he had left Mother Russia. He pocketed the garrote just in case, grabbed a rucksack full of rations, and left the safehouse.

 

Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target was difficult to kill.  Every time the Asset was in position Weapons Handler and his men interfered, starting the moment Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target had left Lead Handler’s office.  Weapons Handler should have known better than to pick a fight in a glass elevator. Weapons Handler wanted to do the Asset’s job. Weapons Handler was not good at it.  He was Weapons Handler. That is where his skills lay. The Asset was the Asset. That was where his skills lay. A new emotion crept in. Like anger, but different. _Annoyance_.

He spotted them across the shopping mall leaving a computer store.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target was with a redheaded agent. His vision went white as the memory came for him.  He was in a dimly lit ballet studio. The studio was red with blood, magnified by the now-cracked mirrors lining the walls.  The smell filled his nostrils. A red-haired teenage girl in a black leotard and tights stood on pointe in the middle of the room.  Her white toe shoes were stained red. The rest of her was spotless. She was surrounded by the bodies of eleven other ballerinas whose leotards and tights were no longer pure black.  “ _You belong to each other now,_ ” a woman wearing a white ballet costume said in Russian.  “ _The Winter Soldier and the Black Widow.  You will bring down the West together._ ”  He nodded at the girl in acknowledgement.  She nodded back.

When the Asset’s vision returned Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target and Agent Former Ally Black Widow were gone.  Weapons Handler and his under-handlers were scanning the crowds. Weapons Handler had spooked Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target and Agent Former Ally Black Widow.  There was no point in trying to find them again in the mall. He felt both angry and annoyed. Interesting. Two feelings could be felt at once.

The Asset closed his eyes to focus.  The feelings receded. If Agent Former Ally Black Widow was as competent as his memory suggested she would not make it easy to find Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target.  He might need to wait for them to come out into the open. He could do that.

Before he could reopen his eyes the white overtook him again.  Agent Former Ally Black Widow was with a former target. They were in a region he recognized as being near Odessa.  The target was a former target because the target was dead. He shot her. She was in the way. She was protecting the man who had been driving.  He did not shoot to kill her, though. Just the other man. The Black Widow was Former Ally. She had earned his respect. She deserved this courtesy.

The Asset struggled to catch his breath as the memory faded.  He took off his mask to aid the process. He’d never had two memories in one day before.  He kept his eyes closed as he made his way towards the mall exit. He knew the mall layout by heart and he trusted people to move out of his way.  That was the only thing he trusted people to do consistently. That and hurt him.

He needed to speak with Lead Handler.  He needed Lead Handler to order Weapons Handler to stop interfering.  He needed to be wiped to ensure mission integrity. He needed --

A familiar smell hit his nostrils.  A young woman was smoking a cigarette just outside the exit doors to the mall.  The Asset found himself putting a hand out. He stared at the woman expectantly.

“You want a cigarette?” she asked, surprised.  He nodded. She fished one out of her purse. He took it and placed it in his mouth.  She lit it for him. He inhaled slowly, savoring it. He nodded at the woman in thanks.  He remembered that he hadn’t had a cigarette since the Americans had bought him. He smiled as he slipped into the crowd.

  
The Asset listened to Lead Handler in the kitchen of Lead Handler’s house.  He watched as Lead Handler shot an under-handler for being there without permission.  The Asset decided not to tell Lead Handler about the memories. If Lead Handler was angry enough to shoot under-handlers just for being in the room he would not be gentle about recalibration.  The Asset recognized a new emotion as he sat across the kitchen table from Lead Handler -- _fear_.


	3. Until We Close Our Eyes for Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitwell tries to fix things. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that includes Sitwell's death from CA:TWS. It's not gory but it is kind of graphic since it's from Sitwell's POV.
> 
> I'm going to be away from the internet for about a week, so I'm going ahead and posting the last two chapters. Just know that if you have any comments/suggestions/corrections I won't see them for a while.
> 
> I appreciate all of your support! Thank you for allowing me to share a small slice of myself with you. I hope reading this has a positive impact on your day.
> 
> Also... I'm an asshole and forgot to thank helloarmchairphilosopher for once again beta-ing my work. I can't get away with being lazy. It's great. It also means more angst for you. Muahaha!!!

Sitwell disliked working with Rumlow.  Rumlow had all the subtlety of a brick through a window.  There wasn’t anyone else to go to when he needed backup, though.  Sitwell’s forte was behind the scenes operations- data collections, ops management, that sort of thing.  Rumlow was the complete opposite. He was strong, cruel, and lacked restraint. Sitwell needed someone like Rumlow when it came to missions like this one.  He had to keep the Asset in check. Pierce couldn’t find out he was slipping off the rails.

Strictly speaking, there wasn’t really any reason why Sitwell couldn’t have gone to Pierce.  But Pierce had been acting a little more tightly wound than usual over the past week. Fury’s body was barely in rigor mortis when Pierce declared Captain America a traitor.  That had been a spontaneous bit of genius, adding a nationwide manhunt into the mix. Now, when the Winter Soldier killed Steve Rogers in the middle of D.C., Hydra wouldn’t need much spin to claim their moral victory.  The people would be practically clamoring for Project Insight to get off the ground. Sitwell smiled at this. He might even get a medal for his role in all this. Maybe. If it all went well.

So Sitwell met Rumlow at a seedy Hydra-owned bar that evening.  He was tired, but he drank a shitty beer anyway. It seemed like the kind of place where you’d get beat up for ordering a fruity cocktail or a cup of coffee.  If they even had coffee.

Rumlow came in late.  He walked up to the bar and ordered a tall boy of piss that passed for beer before sitting down on a stool and turning to Sitwell.  “This better be good,” he said. “We just blew up the Captain and his little spy friend. I should be celebrating with my crew.”

Sitwell frowned.  How had he not heard about this?  “If that’s true and the job is done, why hasn’t the Asset come in?” he asked.

“What are you saying?” growled Rumlow.  “You think we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing?”

“Not at all,” Sitwell said smoothly.  Rumlow terrified him, but he couldn’t let Rumlow know that.  “I’m just saying I’m worried about the Asset.”

“You’re always worried, you fuckin’ pussy.  Fuck knows why Pierce puts up with you.” Rumlow chugged his can of piss and signaled the bartender for another one.

Sitwell took a sip of his beer to hide the fact that he was steadying himself.  He hated Rumlow. He was like every bully Sitwell had ever been the target of rolled into one steroid-enhanced package, with a hint of strength serums thrown in for good measure.  Sitwell swallowed and told Rumlow, “I want you to shift your focus to the Asset. His performance today indicates that we may be starting to see some of the instability our scientist friends warned us about.”

Rumlow popped the tab on his new can of beer.  “The fuck you talking about?”

“Have you ever known the Asset to have to pursue a target?” Sitwell asked.  “Because that’s what happened with Fury.”

“If he’d just stuck with the big guns instead of breaking out that fucking sniper rifle-” Rumlow started.

Sitwell could see that he was getting worked up.  “You know he doesn’t work like that,” Sitwell interjected.  “Just- make sure the job is done and bring him in. As soon as possible.”

Rumlow chugged beer number two and signaled the bartender for a third.  “This coming from you or Pierce?” he asked.

“It’s coming from your head of Operations, Rumlow,” Sitwell answered sternly.  “Pierce is working on the political side of things right now. With the Project Insight launch so close...”  He didn’t finish the sentence. Really, Sitwell just didn’t want to admit to Rumlow that he was afraid of telling Pierce that the situation was rapidly spiraling out of hand.  ‘Pussy’ would be mild compared to the insults Rumlow would throw at him if he knew. Besides, Rumlow seemed to think everything was still going according to plan.

“You know what, Sitwell?  I’ll do it,” Rumlow said. He opened his third tall boy.  “ Just because it looks like you’ve finally grown some fuckin’ balls.  Making calls without running it by daddy first. We’ve got this. The boys and I’ll bring him in tomorrow.”  He chugged the third beer, slapped some cash on the bar, and got up from his stool. “I have a kegger at a CrossFit Box to go to.  I’ll let you know when the job’s done.” He left the bar without another word, walking like he hadn’t just chugged three beers.

Sitwell sighed and drained his glass.  He hoped Rumlow was right about having blown up Captain Rogers.  His life would be so much easier if all he had to do was bring the Asset back in.

Then he frowned.  Where had Rogers been that allowed Rumlow to blow him up?  There wasn’t anywhere in D.C. that wouldn’t have led to civilian casualties and a breaking news bulletin.  Sitwell hadn’t received any notifications about explosions in D.C. He pulled out his phone and started combing through intel.

It didn’t take long to find an event that fit the brief description Rumlow had given him.  An abandoned military base in Jersey had been blown to bits. Except this wasn’t any old military base- this was where Hydra had cemented its foothold in S.H.I.E.L.D.  This was where the operations branch had been headquartered until the base was decommissioned. Pierce still went there sometimes, when he needed to be alone and regain perspective.  Why had Captain Rogers and his companion gone there? Just how much had they known?

Sitwell shuddered.  He ordered another beer and drank it as fast as he could.  Getting drunk suddenly sounded like a really good idea. He’d never been able to chug the way Rumlow did.  Sitwell was envious of how cool Rumlow looked chugging beer from a can. Meanwhile, he had to make do with big gulps that threatened to choke him.  Sitwell set his empty glass down, closed his tab, and then went to go find his driver.

 

The next day, after doing his part for Pierce’s political palm-greasing, Sitwell learned first-hand that Rumlow had not, in fact, succeeded in killing Captain America or the Black Widow.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, they’d recruited an ally from the now-shuttered Falcon project and stolen the tech that had made the Falcons possible. The three of them working together were capable, efficient, and terrifying.  Hydra had clearly underestimated Steve Rogers. He was no longer the goody two-shoes on the USO circuit, the naive Captain that had led the Battle of New York, or the blushing boy that got tongue-tied during unscripted interviews.  Nothing had prepared Sitwell for the man Steve Rogers became when he was desperate.

He burned with shame as he rode in the car with Captain America, Black Widow, and the strange soldier whose name was apparently Sam.  Sitwell had squealed like a little girl. It would have been one thing if they’d asked about the Asset- it was only a matter of time until Steve, Natasha, and Sam were dead and the Asset was decommissioned.  No. They had asked him about Project Insight. And Sitwell had given them everything. He could only hope that Pierce didn’t decide to let Rumlow play with him before they killed him. He’d experienced enough torture for one day.

Sam drove them onto the overpass but quickly came to a stop.  Something was happening with traffic up ahead. Sitwell didn’t pay too much attention to what was going on outside his own brain.  D.C. traffic wasn’t known to be great, after all. Then he heard the sound of breaking glass as a metallic hand shot through the window, grabbed him, and threw him.  Sitwell let out a high-pitched scream as he flew through the air. His brain registered that he was flying, and then -- 


	4. But I Remember Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Memory. Mind wipes. Bucky.
> 
> Need I say more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Enjoy!
> 
> And yes, there's going to be more eventually.

The Asset laid low while he waited for Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target and Agent Former Ally Black Widow to come back into the open.  He made a nest on a rooftop mid-city, surrounding himself with protein bars, a pack of cigarettes, and various equipment for monitoring his channels.  Around 2000 hours a report came over the line of an explosion at an abandoned military base in New Jersey. The report indicated that Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target and Agent Former Ally Black Widow were dead.  He didn’t believe it. Not if Weapons Handler was involved, as he claimed. The Asset spent the night savoring the pack of cigarettes and paying attention.

His patience finally paid off around 1015 hours.  A break-in was reported at a secure Pentagon facility.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target and Agent Former Ally Black Widow must have been in need of supplies.  They had been careless to let anyone notice the break-in. Or perhaps it was a message. If it was a message, the Asset read it loud and clear.  It meant that they were getting ready to fight back. This would be good,

The Asset found Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target and Agent Former Ally Black Widow at the same time that they found Operations Handler.  He watched as they worked together seamlessly. He felt a light, bubbly sensation rise in his chest as he watched.  _ Joy _ .  Agent Former Ally Black Widow dropped Operations Handler off the roof, only for a new agent- Agent Soldier Wings- to catch Operations Handler and take him back up to the roof.  It was a beautiful moment.

The Asset felt joy that Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target, Agent Former Ally Black Widow, and Agent Soldier Wings had helped him identify a weak member of the group.  Operations Handler had only needed to be dropped off the roof once. He could see through the scope that Operations Handler was talking. This was not good. Operations Handler knew everything.  The only handler more important was Lead Handler. Operations Handler talking was putting everything in jeopardy.

He couldn’t help but be impressed, though.  Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target, Agent Former Ally Black Widow, and Agent Soldier Wings were obviously moderately competent agents, previous mistakes not withstanding.  It was gratifying to be working with people of their caliber for once. Even if they were technically on the wrong side.

The agents took Operations Handler with them when they drove off.  This, too, pleased the Asset. He would be able to take care of Operations Handler at the same time as Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target.  Convenient. So much tidier than anything Weapons Handler had conceived. Agent Soldier Wings was driving. The Asset followed them from the rooftops, searching for a strategic opening.

He noticed that he was not the only one following them.  The Asset caught sight of a man that he knew was one of Weapons Handler’s under-handlers.  Weapons Handler must still be assigned to work with him. Operations Handler and Lead Handler had not learned from yesterday.  At least the man he had recognized was former KGB and would take orders. Still, the annoyed feeling spread in his chest. He would have to act fast.  Killing Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target would be much harder once Weapons Handler joined in.

There was an overpass ahead.  Perfect. It was out in the open, which would make Lead Handler happy.  Perhaps with so much space Weapons Handler and his under-handlers wouldn’t be as much of a problem.  Plus, he would be able to separate Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target from the other two agents. Separation would be ideal.  Agents who fought in teams as well as they rarely operated just as well alone.

He dealt with Operations Handler first.  He didn’t see what happened to him, but he heard a semi truck try to brake quickly.  Good. The Asset could focus exclusively on stopping the others inside the car.

The fight went south quickly.  Separating Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target, Agent Former Ally Black Widow, and Agent Soldier Wings was ineffective.  They fought as well together as they did apart. Agent Former Ally Black Widow especially proved herself a formidable opponent.  He was starting to make good headway against them. But then his mask fell off as he was fighting Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target, and -- 

“Bucky?” gasped Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” growled the Asset.

And then the white was obscuring his vision, and it was all he could do to pull out of the fight.   _ He remembered _ .

He was eight.  A scrawny blonde boy was getting beaten up in a back alley.  The boy’s back was up against the bricks, fists raised as though to beat off the bully nearly twice his size.  He beat up the attacker for the boy. “I had ‘im on the ropes, Bucky,” the scrawny boy complained as they walked out of the alley arm-in-arm.

He was thirteen.  He was smoking a cigarette he’d stolen from his father.  He and the scrawny boy were walking down a street in Brooklyn, hands in their pockets, kicking at rocks and litter.  “I can handle myself, Bucky,” the scrawny boy said, clearly irritated. He glared at what must have been the Bucky-person with his clear blue eyes.  “I don’t need you stepping in every time I get in a fight.”

“Yeah, Steve, which is why I’ve got a black eye and you’ve got a broken nose.  Shaddup, punk,” he remembered saying fondly.

“Jerk,” said Steve.

Then he realized- Steve had been glaring at  _ him _ .   _ He _ was the Bucky person.  He was  _ Bucky _ .

He was fourteen.  It was a cold, snowy winter morning.  Bucky was sharing a bed with Steve. The blankets, pillows, and mattress were all thin and worn, but body heat kept them warm.  He was curled around Steve protectively. He knew, somehow, that Steve’s fever had broken during the night. He was also hard for the first time.  Bucky remembered the sinking feeling of looking at his best friend’s soft eyelashes and mussy hair and realizing that he was in love with someone he could never have.

He was twenty.  He and Steve were drunk.  Steve had never been kissed, and that wasn’t right, with his soft rosy lips and long dark eyelashes and baby-smooth skin.  Bucky’s lips met Steve’s, soft and wet, and then he was forcing Steve’s lips apart with his tongue, and Steve was kissing back, and Steve tasted like gin and desire and  _ home _ .  Steve passed out when they broke apart.  He masturbated next to him, careful not to touch Steve.  In the morning, Steve didn’t remember.

Bucky was in Azzano.  Steve was there to rescue him.  But he wasn’t  _ Steve  _ anymore.  The small, sickly facade nature had gifted him with was gone.  Everything that Steve was on the inside- kind and noble and strong- was now reflected on the outside.  He was breathtakingly beautiful. And he was there for Bucky. For  _ him _ .

It was snowing.  Bucky couldn’t keep his grip on Steve anymore.  He was falling...

He was strapped to the Chair.  Lead Handler and Weapons Handler were there, along with several under-handlers.  Lead Handler was saying something. He couldn’t understand. Finally he realized that Lead Handler was asking for a Mission Report.  “There was a man...” he managed to say. “I knew him...”

Lead Handler said a lot of words.  The Asset had a hard time following through the barrage of memories that kept trying to invade his mind.  Gunshots. Smells of whiskey and gunpowder and blood. The memories were trying to drown him. Despite his mental turmoil, though, he understood what Lead Handler wanted.  He opened his mouth for the bite guard.

A new feeling filled him until he ached as his mouth closed around the thick black rubber.   _ Sadness _ .  Then the electrical shocks started.  The emotion left him as the pain took hold, and everything turned red before finally going black.

 

The Asset stared at the photograph on the wooden table, memorizing the chiseled features.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, strong nose and jaw. “This man is your mission target,” the under-handler said.  “It is absolutely critical that you kill him as soon as possible. Nothing matters except killing this man.”

“Roger,” the Asset said.  He rose from his chair and began to pack his arsenal.

 

Target wouldn’t fight back.  Why wouldn’t he fight back. Target had even  _ saved _ him.  It made no sense.  He had no self-preservation.  The punk.

“You know me,” Target kept saying.

Something was filling his chest.  Something new.  _ Anger _ .  “No, I don’t!”

“Bucky,” said the Target, “You’ve known me your entire life.  Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…”

“SHUT UP,” he screamed.  The anger was taking him over.  He couldn’t maintain mission focus.  He couldn’t. He. Must. Kill-

“I’m not gonna fight you.  You’re my friend.” Target dropped his shield.

Anger burst.  It made room for something new.  Something that felt empty. Not empty like normal, though.  Empty like his insides had been scooped out and he was nothing but a sack of skin and metal.   _ Sadness _ .  “You’re my mission.  YOU ARE MY MISSION!!!”  He tried desperately to regain focus.  He was supposed to kill --

“Then finish it,” Target said.  “‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

His vision went white.  Target’s voice echoed through his brain, accompanied by images.  A train in the mountains. An army camp. City streets, bars, alleyways.  In all of them he was with a boy. This boy. This man, who refused to fight him.  Because they were friends. They had done everything together. In that instant, he realized --  _ he knew him _ .

Target was falling.

They were falling.

They hit water.  

The cold shock of the Potomac River cleared his head.  Not a dying shock, like when he was recalibrated. It was a shock like being reborn.  The world shifted slightly. He noticed that Ally Agent Artist Steve Rogers Target was motionless in the water.  Something clicked in his brain. Steve Rogers wasn’t allowed to die. James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes grabbed Steve and swam to shore.


End file.
